Heroes &
Heretics
Edited by Nicholas Ahlhelm
Published by
METAHUMAN PRESS
Cedar Rapids, IA 52403
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used in a fictional manner. Other names, characters, places, and events portrayed are of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, and people, whether living or dead, is coincidental. Heroes & Heretics: Pulp Empire Volume 7 Smashwords Edition copyright © 2011 Nicholas J. Ahlhelm. Individual story information below.
All rights reserved, including the reproduction rights in whole or in part in any form. Some fonts used in production of this book were created by Blambot (Blambot.com) and are used under their Free Font License Agreement. © Nate Piekos.
New Pulp Logo designed by Sean Ali.
Corruption’s Device copyright © 2011 Mike Phillips .
An Offering For Sister Rachael copyright © 2011 D.L. Chance.
Come On, Night! copyright © 2011 Alexander Zelenyj.
Espacio: Space copyright © 2011 Mark Brandon Allen.
Easy Money copyright © 2011 Lance Young.
Sounds Like a Plan copyright © 2011 James Valvis.
Fool’s Gold copyright © 2011 Milo James Fowler.
Curve Ball copyright © 2011 Chad Rohrbacher.
That Old Dry Spell copyright © 2011 Gregory Llalone.
The Devil Within copyright © 2011 Timothy Miller.
The Bats of Elvidner copyright © 2009 Danielle L. Parker. Originally published at Bewildering Stories.
Fangs Beneath the Sand copyright © 2011 Jeff Pawlak.
First Shots copyright © 2011 Robert J. Sullivan.
The Rockets & the Spells copyright © 2011 David Perlmutter.
The Heart of the Dream Witch copyright © 2011 Viktor Kowalski.
Weedhead copyright © 2011 Mario Milosevic.
The Thirteenth Knight copyright © 2011 Jeromy Henry.
Into the Demesne of Dhuada copyright © 2011 Jack Mulcahy.
Blazing Troubles copyright © 2011 Dixon Hill.
CONTENTS
Corruption’s Device by Mike Phillips
An Offering for Sister Rachael by D.L. Chance
Come On, Night! by Alexander Zelenyj
Espacio: Space by Mark Brandon Allen
Sounds Like a Plan by James Valvis
Fool’s Gold by Milo James Fowler
That Old Dry Spell by Gregory Llalone
The Devil Within by Timothy Miller
The Bats of Elvidner by Danielle L. Parker
Fangs Beneath the Sand by Jeff Pawlak
First Shots by Robert J. Sullivan
The Rockets & the Spells by David Perlmutter
The Heart of the Dream Witch by Viktor Kowalski
The Thirteenth Knight by Jeromy Henry
Into the Demesne of Dhuada by Jack Mulcahy
Blazing Troubles by Dixon Hill
Corruption’s Device
Enchantment lay thick upon the old woman as she sat behind the cash register, totaling the day’s lunch receipts. Unhappy with the results even upon the third attempt, she set about the counting once again.
All but one of the customers at Syl’s Café had finished lunch, polishing off an old fashioned blended milkshake or a piece of strawberry rhubarb pie, and had gone back to work. The singular woman in a floral print dress and cardigan sweater drank the last of her tea, collected her things, and went to see what the trouble was about.
“Goodness me,” the old woman said, about to throw up her hands in frustration, full of receipts as they were, “I just don’t know what I did with it. Where did it go?”
“Whatever is the matter?” the last customer, Lynn Weigenmeister, asked with concern, taking her wallet from her purse.
“I’m so befuddled today I don’t know up from down,” the old woman exclaimed, trying to rub the pain from her forehead. “I’ve used the same system for thirty-eight years to keep it all straight and now look at it, useless.”
“It doesn’t add up?”
“No, and you can imagine what my husband will say.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?” Miss Weigenmeister asked in a kindly voice.
The old woman rolled her eyes and held a tight smile. “Forty years in marriage, thirty-eight in business. He managed the kitchen and I managed the books.”
Nodding with understanding, Miss Weigenmeister handed over her check and a ten dollar bill. “Well, here is mine at least. Perhaps if you counted the receipts out in front of me, I might see where you’re making your mistake. Though I’m not much good with numbers myself, I might be able to help you figure the figures.”
“You’d do that?”
“Does Syl make the best rutabaga pasties in town?”
The old woman smiled and blushed. “Well, thank you. You are a sweet girl.”
As the old woman set down the slips of green and white paper, indecipherable scrawls of blue ink upon each, Miss Weigenmeister perceived again the working of a spell. When the fifteenth bill was laid it was promptly overlooked.
“There it is again, not a bit of help,” the old woman said in resignation. “Not that I’m blaming you, dear.”
“No, not at all, but I think that I’ve found the trouble. Why don’t you read them backwards and see if I can’t catch it for certain this time?”
The old woman again counted, this time from back to front. The same receipt, the ninth this time, was left out. Miss Weigenmeister snatched the slip of paper off the counter and held it up for a closer look. Upon it, if she was making out the script correctly, was a roast beef sandwich with gravy, an order of fries, a milkshake, and three pieces of pie. It was a hefty bill for one person and an odd order that left little to go on.
“No,” the old woman protested in a distant voice, allowing little time for Miss Weigenmeister to make her examination, “not that one. You can’t count that one.”
Surmising what had happened, Miss Weigenmeister laid the check onto the counter with a loud smack. The old woman woke from her haze with a start. “What?” she asked. “What was that?”
“The missing check,” Miss Weigenmeister explained, working her own bit of magic. “It had fallen on this side of the counter.”
The old woman took the slip in her hand and marveled. “Yes. Yes, that was the one. Thank you. Oh, thank you so much. I knew I lost it somewhere.”
“Of course.” Miss Weigenmeister wondered if the cash drawer wouldn’t be short the exact amount when the till was totaled at the end of the day.
“Oh, my, that reminds me. One of the old county buildings has been sold and when they cleaned out the vault, those nice young men gave the historical society some documents dating back to the incorporation, maybe even before.”
“Really? That would be a wonderful addition to our archives. Perhaps someday we’ll have a suitable exhibit.”
“I know how you like to hang up all those old photographs. I gathered as many as I could and Syl helped me put them into frames. Do you mind if I bring them over to you at the library later? No, better make it tomorrow. I don’t feel up to it all of a sudden.”
“That’s most generous. Tomorrow will be fine. Thank you.”
“And thank you.”
*****
Outside it was a shining fall day. The trees were hot with color, fired in orange, yellow and red. The air was crisp but mild. The week before had been gloomy, which had made Miss Weigenmeister claustrophobic and in some way sparked this rare foray into town. Her next stop was the hardware store.
Apples were plentiful this year, and she had decided to put up extra applesauce. In fact, it had been a bountiful year for all her garden. She had canned more green beans, pickles, and tomatoes than she had in all the years she could remember. The only trouble was she had run out of jars.
The door of the hardware store struck a bell as she pushed it open and she caught the smell old pipe smoke and ashes in the wood stove yet to be cleared from the previous winter. The Ball and Kerr, she knew, were with all the other canning supplies, in the row next to the kitchen appliances.
The wood floor bespoke many days of hard boots and heavy boxes with the passing of her feet. As she walked the aisle, she listened and enjoyed the sound of the creaking boards. Then it struck her for the second time, the working of a spell.
“Gayle, did you see where that radio went?” a gruff voice called from behind tall shelves stocked with merchandise. “We didn’t sell it, did we?”
“The radio?” Gayle answered from the counter.
“Yes, you know, the big one on the shelf.”
“I don’t remember ever having a radio,” replied Gayle. “This is a hardware store for goodness sake, not some fancy electronics’ boutique.”
Miss Weigenmeister had to suppress a laugh despite her concern for the enchantment. She moved along quietly so as not to disturb the conversation.
“I know this is a hardware store. Bless me, my grandfather started this hardware store over a hundred years ago, but I say we had a radio and now it’s gone.”
“Maybe someone bought it.”
“Well, I didn’t sell it.”
“Neither did I.”
“It was here this morning. You’ve been at the counter all morning.”
“So have you. Maybe it’s out back sleeping in the stockroom, pretending to go get nails.”
“No need to get snippy if you forgot to write it down.”
“Snippy? Me?” Gayle retorted. “Maybe I’m not the one who forgot to write it down.”
“A lot of things haven’t been written down lately. Maybe now I know why.”
Miss Weigenmeister believed that she knew why. Thinking it time to announce herself, she coughed and said, “Excuse me, where are the canning supplies?”
A bald head belonging to an old man poked out from around the aisle. He wore a leather apron with wide pockets, a button down shirt and dress slacks that were flawlessly pressed. “Oh, Miss Weigenmeister, where did you come from?” the man, Thomas, asked in a pleasant voice.
“From outside,” Gayle shouted.
Ignoring his wife, Thomas said, “What can I do for you today?”
“I came in for canning supplies, but it sounds like you’ve been having a bit of trouble.”
“Honestly, all this rain has me in a daze. Here, let me help you with the jars.”
The sale was made with little more evidence of the spell. Thomas seemed brighter as he carried the heavy box full of glass jars outside and strapped it to the front of Miss Weigenmeister’s bicycle. But if he had remembered where the radio had gotten to, he didn’t say.
“Well, it seems today is a proper day for me to be out after all,” Miss Weigenmeister said to herself, wheeling her bicycle down the sidewalk. “There’s a puzzle that needs solving. I imagine the trail will set itself before me soon enough. People certainly are acting strangely.”
Focusing, she bent her will upon the problem, searching for guidance. Divination was a particular talent of hers. Divination of this type, in pursuit of evil, almost seemed to come to her as if gifted by some unseen force.
“The direction defies detection,” she announced aloud with a sigh, getting nothing. “This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought, but then again things seldom are. I’ll have to come back tomorrow and do some more investigating. A trail like this won’t grow cold in haste.”
Making the decision final, she again addressed herself, “I need a gallon of milk and the gas station is nearby, best price in town, so I might as well get it there and then start home.”
Enjoying the sun, trying to soak in as much light and heat as she could before the cold winds of winter blew, Miss Weigenmeister made her way to the corner gas station. When she arrived an old Chevy was idling near the door. As she walked in, an unremarkable young man dressed in jeans and a dirty denim jacket stood before the counter. Kent Rubley, she knew him. He was buying cigarettes.
“He’s too young to be buying cigarettes and he shouldn’t even be driving,” Miss Weigenmeister thought. But then it hit her. The enchantment stank on him like the spring manure pile at a hog barn.
The young man eyed her, then glanced to the security camera mounted on the wall behind the clerk. “Oh, it’s you, the librarian,” Kent said, taking his hand from his coat pocket. He opened his hand and showed her some strange looking piece of jewelry. She could not see it so as to be able to describe what it looked like, but the pretty thing certainly glinted in a way that caught the eye. A fog rolled over her mind. Recognizing the enchantment, she turned her will and it went away.
“Well, look at you,” Kent said with a smirk. “The pretty librarian here, with me, totally under my control. What I would do to you if this camera wasn’t watchin’.”
Miss Weigenmeister didn’t respond. She let her features go blank.
“Yeah, I’d love to take a turn at that,” he said, his eyes appraising her. “Sorry babe, but I got to go. The camera’s watchin’, you know. I’ll take you up on your offer next time.” He stepped abruptly away, flinging the door open in front of him.
As the door slammed shut, the clerk came back as if from a pleasant dream. He blinked, shook his head, and then looked up. By that time, Kent had dropped his car, a thunderously loud machine, into gear and pulled away.
“When did you get here?” the clerk asked, confused.
“I’ve lived here all my life,” Miss Weigenmeister said, leaving no room for questions or answers. “I have a few things I need to take care of, but I’ll be back for my bicycle later.”
Now she worked a bit of an enchantment of her own. If she were going to follow the young man, she would have to be after him quickly. Kent was growing bold, more confident in his abilities. How he behaved toward her indicated a more threatening intent, a malice that was beginning to fester.
“Do you mind if I leave it out back?” Miss Weigenmeister said.
“Feel free, but be careful,” the clerk replied. “A lot of stuff has come up missing around town and none’s to blame.”
“Thanks for the warning but it’s probably just some misunderstood youth. These things have a way of working themselves out in time.”
“I hope so.”
She wove a new direction into her spell. This one was built more solidly, more subtly than the first. “Would it be acceptable for me to lock my things into the restroom?”
“No problem,” the clerk said, retrieving something from under the counter. “Here’s the key.”
“Thank you very much.”
*****
Taking one last careful look around before entering the restroom, Miss Weigenmeister brought her bike inside and set it against the wall, locking the door behind her. She took off her clothes and folded them neatly upon the basin. Then, feeling an anxious but familiar turn of the stomach, she began.
She looked at her hand and forearm, thinking about the fine bones within, how very much like the bones of a bird’s wing they were. That was how the change began.
The hairs stood upon her arm, broadened and grew dark, becoming feathers. Her legs diminished and her feet became clawed. Her nose lengthened to a point and her eyes moved to the sides of her head. Even before the change had completely worked upon her, Miss Weigenmeister flew out the open window in pursuit.
In the guise of a crow, Miss Weigenmeister rose high in the sky, soaring, gliding, searching for the car. The spore of the old Chevy’s passing was unmistakable. A plume of exhaust rose like a skunk’s tail, black and fetid. Along the road the young Kent now traveled there were but a few houses and nowhere else to go. He was headed home.
The wings of a crow aren’t made for traveling distance and neither are the arms of librarians. By the time Miss Weigenmeister had found the place she was looking for, she had grown tired.
Kent’s was a nice house with a well kept lawn, trim bushes and a little garden out back. The soil looked appreciated and well tended. As late in the season as it was, flowers bloomed. The remnants of thick vines in a compost pile revealed a bounty of tomatoes that may have rivaled even her own.
Miss Weigenmeister kept her guise, first hopping then flying more in the way of a crow in the wild, searching for some way inside the house. No doors were ajar. The windows were far beyond the ability of a crow to open. She considered making the change but there were no clothes on the line to be had.
“Am I the only one who doesn’t use a dryer nowadays?” she asked herself, spying an exhaust vent from the basement choked with lint.
A window opened, and from it came a white puff and the sharp smell of burning tobacco. “Perhaps your power over your parents isn’t complete,” the crow said in a low voice, watching the boy draw deeply through the cigarette and then expel a white cloud into the outside air. “If you have to hide your smoking from your parents, may I assume then that the power you have is temporary or perhaps focused on a single object?”
The crow waited until the boy had finished his first cigarette and then lighted upon the windowsill, stepping cautiously inside. “Well good day, Mister Rubley. Haven’t you been busy?”
“What? A talking bird?” the young man said in surprise, coughing out smoke.
“Yes, or perhaps someone has mesmerized you.”
He turned pale. “How do you know about that?”
“You might as well ask how a crow can speak. I won’t tell you that either, Kent Rubley, now that I know what mischief you have been up to.” She added scornfully, “Shame on you.”
The pretty thing was still in his pocket. He took it out and flashed it at her.
“That won’t work on me. You’ve had your chance and failed. Give it to me.”
“No, It’s mine,” Kent said, growing angry, though he was still unable to decide whether or not he should attack so strange a messenger.
“I bet it isn’t yours. I bet you stole it from that nice old man you do lawn work for. Wasn’t he a magician of some kind before he retired? They say he was very good, even worked Vegas for a time. Shame on you. Shame on you for stealing from an old man and using his tricks for evil purposes.” She hopped nearer, saying, “Now give it to me. These are not things for you to meddle with. Give it to me and return all that you stole. And don’t forget to pay for that lunch.”
“What? How did you know?”
“I know everything. And if you don’t want everyone else to know too, you’ll make this right. If you force my hand I’ll have the police come. There’s enough in the bedroom here to send you to the juvenile home. How would you like that?”
Kent moved to attack, but his response had been anticipated. Without sound or gesture the crow loosed her spell and the young man froze. “We can do this all day if you’d like,” the crow said smugly, but she released him a moment later.
“But what are you going to do with it?” Kent asked as he held out his hand.
Taking the medallion in a claw, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Its previous owner used it for good. He made lots of children happy without much reward for himself, but that part of his life is over. I’m sure Mister Mercer would be happy to have it pass on to someone deserving, someone who would use it as wisely as he did.”
She gave Kent a sidelong glance and said, “If you make amends, if you prove to me that you have learned responsibility and are capable of an equal good, maybe someday this great gift will return to you. I’ll be watching.”
With that, she flapped her wings and was away.
An Offering for Sister Rachael
By D. L. Chance
Theo noted how much cleaner the sidewalk out front of the Cherry Creek Outreach to Lost Souls and the Wretched looked this warm late spring morning than it was on either side of the narrow former business address-turned-storefront church and charity kitchen for the dejected and destitute. It was downright spotless, he thought, pulling his sturdy new ‘23 Buick coupe to a stop behind the two older police vehicles parked at the curb. Someone around here must have to work for their meals.
That wouldn’t surprise him.
Sister Rachael Martin was the fiery but caring lay preacher who ran the small rescue mission as a sanctuary from the often harsh realities of life among the bleak conditions on the seedy Cherry Creek side of downtown Denver. She had never been known as an easy touch, even though she devoted her entire existence to the duty of giving to others. A longtime friend of Theo’s grandfather, John Breckenridge Hartfield, Theo had—at the elder Hartfield’s unavoidable insistence, at first—spent many Thanksgiving and Christmas days as a child, then as a young man, at the mission helping to feed hungry skid row dwellers the only hot meal they’d had in what was for most of them a long, long time.
Like Theo, many of the miserable, life-ravaged regulars were combat veterans of the recent Great War, and some of the older men had seen service back in the Spanish American War. And no one worked harder at providing and serving those meals than Sister Rachael.
But now, Sister Rachael Martin was dead from a skillet blow to the left side of the head. And on the day the Denver high-hats were set to gather for a special evening fundraising ball at the Brown Palace to benefit her mission.
Sighing deeply, Theo glanced around him. He didn’t see anyone watching, but as he climbed from his automobile his war-honed senses were still so finely tuned that he could almost feel dozens of eyes on him from dingy second and third floor windows all along the rundown street.
A policeman stationed just inside the mission door recognized Theo and wordlessly nodded for him to pass. Theo could hear voices through the open door to the kitchen, so he made his way toward it. Pausing beside the haggard old upright piano Sister Rachael always insisted he play whenever he was helping out around the place, he couldn’t help smiling slightly.
“Now Theodore Roosevelt Hartfield,” she would say, a big wooden spoon projecting from one of the fists she rested on her broad hips, “you know you weren’t given your talent just to waste it on you.”
He had always wanted to ask her just who else it was he was supposed to waste his talent on, but he knew what she would do with the spoon if he ever did. So he allowed her to hug him instead when he’d sit down to play a few old hymns for the down-and-outers.
Theo laid a gentle hand on the piano, and pulled it away when the beat-up old instrument rocked slightly on its three wheels. He didn’t want to make it tip over.
In the kitchen, just beyond the combined meeting and dining room, Theo recognized the two uniformed officers and Sgt. Pete Davis, the Denver PD detective who’d called the office earlier and asked if Theo could come by. The back door hung open to the alley beyond, and a small reddish spot on the otherwise immaculate floor—and the discolored cast iron frying pan nearby—caused a lump in Theo’s throat. He drew a deep breath, nodded at the uniforms, then he turned and met the detective’s intense stare.
“Anything new?” he asked, his voice as level as he could make it.
“Thanks for coming, Theo.” Detective Davis blinked and looked down to study the dried bloodstain at his feet. “I know this is hard for you, but I thought we could use your help.”
“I guess it’s hard for all of us, Pete.” Theo gazed at the stain and tried to lay his personal feelings about the murder victim aside. “She was a good one. What else do you know so far?”
The policeman studied Theo’s face for a long moment before drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
“We have an arrest,” he said. “Got him right after I called you. The morning bartender over at Beeman’s noticed that a derelict who usually hangs around in the alley out back of the place paid for a drink from an envelope that had Sister Rachel’s name written on it. The barman stepped out front to call the beat officer, and there was almost fifty dollars inside when the bum was collared. He said he found it out back here in the alley.”
Theo couldn’t help frowning into the distance, the way his grandfather used to do when something didn’t seem quite right and needed further pondering.
“Theo?”
“Hmmm?”
“Theo, did you hear me? We arrested the killer.”
“I heard. Which bartender was it?”
“At Beemans?”
“Yeah.”
“It was Henderson,” Davis said. “The big guy.”
“Hobnail Henderson?”
“That’s the one.” Davis nodded. “He usually works the night shift, when there might be more trouble. But Beeman has him working mornings now since he kicked the hell out of a mine speculator and put him in the hospital a couple weeks back.”
“I’ve seen him here at the mission, before Beeman gave him the job,” Theo said, turning to gaze through the kitchen door at the neat row of chairs set up in the meeting room. “Those heavy boots he wears are on a hair trigger sometimes.”
“He don’t just use his feet,” Davis said. “The way his hand was swollen and bandaged when I talked to him awhile ago, he must’ve busted a few knuckles breaking something up in the past couple of days, too.”
“Speakeasys can be like that, I guess,” Theo opined. “This killer of yours, you said he’s a derelict? Did he confess?”
“Not yet, but he was a known supper regular over here, too,” the detective said. “That’s why the bartender thought it was odd that he had so much money on him. I figure he came in from the alley here, and...you know. He left the door open on his way out.”
“Makes sense. Who found her?”
The officer looked uncomfortable. He didn’t answer.
“Pete? Who discovered the body?”
“I’m not sure I can tell you that, Theo.” The man turned away and started toward the alley door. “He’s overwrought as hell, and I’m not absolutely positive I can let you talk to him on my authority alone. But I can tell you he found her by peering through that opening in the front curtains yonder, and noticing the back door was open. Then he saw Rachael laying on the floor. We found a drunk across the street who saw…the man who found her this morning, and confirmed his story.”
“Okay. Can I talk to this derelict?”
“Oh sure.” The detective stuck his head out the door and looked both ways down the filthy alley. Turning back to Theo, he pushed the door shut and slid both of its heavy bolts home. “We’re gonna let him sit awhile, getting thirstier and thirstier for that whiskey he meant to spend all Sister Rachael’s money on, and I guess he’ll confess the first time we offer him something stronger than water.”
“What are you going to do about Beeman’s?”
The officer shrugged. “Nothing. As long as the mayor and most of the capitol crowd hangs out there, and Beeman keeps the place quiet, the chief is content to let it stay open.” The detective nodded in the direction of the speakeasy a couple blocks away toward the center of the city. “And besides, the drunkards who hang out around the alley door would just be off somewhere committing real crimes and causing real problems if we shut it down.”
“Well, I guess it’s not my worry, then.” Theo looked back at the bloodstain, then at the now closed door to the alley before meeting the police officer’s eye. “He didn’t do it, Pete. The killer came in the front door. This derelict of yours didn’t kill Sister Rachael, or rob her.”
“He was caught with her money.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Theo said. “There’s lots of ways he could have ended up with money in an envelope that had her name on it, including finding it in the alley. And, yes, stealing it could also have been one of those reasons. But not this time.”
“Now how can you know that?” A soft tension crept into the police detective’s voice. “You don’t even know who the derelict is!”
“No. But I know that Sister Rachael was supposed to have a lot more than fifty dollars, because my family alone gave her five hundred just last week to help out with the expenses on the big fundraiser she was supposed to hold tonight. If this derelict only had fifty or thereabouts on him, someone gave it to him for one reason. That reason was—“
“For us to find it. I understand what you’re saying, Theo.” The detective motioned with his forehead for the uniformed officer to leave the kitchen. When he was gone, the detective lowered his voice. “I gave her ten dollars for that big fund drive she was having, myself. It might not be much to your family, but on my pay that’s a lot of money. Still—“ he held out a hand to stop Theo from interrupting “—everyone around here knew she always kept any money she had in an envelope like that, and that she kept it squirreled away somewhere on the premises.”
“Where was that?” Theo asked casually. “Where do you think she kept it?”
“Apparently, she kept it somewhere in the kitchen here, where the killer found it,” detective said. “And I’m sure we’ll get that part of the story out of him before long. It makes sense that Rachael would have heard the noise and came downstairs in time to catch him red-handed, or even on his way out the alley door.”
“How was she dressed?”
“In her regular work clothes.” The officer indicated his hip. “She had a couple of buttons open on the side of her dress, like she was just going to bed.”
“Or like she was just getting up this morning?”
“Maybe, but not as likely.” Davis sighed deeply, and his voice was softer when he went on. “The rest of her clothes didn’t look all that fresh, either. Theo, the evidence says he killed her when she tried to stop him, and he done it by hitting her with that big skillet. And as for your idea about the doors, the front door was locked from the inside, so he had to come in the alley door.” The detective held up a hand to silence Theo for another moment. “He might not have meant to kill her. But he did it just the same, which is why I think he was in such a hurry to get as drunk as he could as soon as he could when Beeman’s opened this morning.”
Theo drew a deep breath and nodded distantly. “That’s the simplest set of events, all right,” he said. “And it makes the most sense. But—” he held up his own hand when the detective started to say something “—it doesn’t explain what happened with all the other money Rachael had available.”
“She must have put it in the bank, like anyone else would have,” the officer said. “Maybe she realized how crazy it’d be to keep cash money stashed anywhere close in this pesthole neighborhood.”
Theo shook his head. “I once heard her tell my grandfather that her family lost everything when her father’s bank was gutted during Sherman’s occupation of Atlanta, back in ‘64. She never trusted banks after that, and preferred to keep her money hid close to her.” He walked slowly back to the meeting room out front and stood next to the piano. “Who found her, Pete?” he asked again.
“Now, Theo, I already told you I can’t say—”
“Have you learned anything new, Sergeant Davis?” Theo looked over to see a dapper-dressed gentleman he recognized stepping slowly through the front door and into the mission’s main dining hall and makeshift sanctuary. “I’ve been so upset this morning that I can’t concentrate on my work. I had to come by and see if anything had changed.”
“Nothing yet, Mr. Baines.” The detective motioned at Theo. “We caught the killer, but you already know about that. Um, have you met Theodore Hartfield? Theo, this is Milton Baines, of the Baines and Murdock Mining Company.”
“Oh yes.” Milton Baines removed an expensive pearl gray kid glove that matched his topcoat, narrow-brim hat and spats. “I believe I have seen Mr. Hartfield at various functions around Denver,” he said, holding out the hand for shaking. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. I’m just sorry we had to meet on such a sad occasion.”
Theo grasped the man’s hand for a quick polite shake. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said. “Did you know Sister Rachael well?”
“I—” Baines glanced quickly at the police officer before going on. “I feel as if I did,” he said hesitantly, carefully pulling his glove back on. “As you no doubt know, she was one of those rare people one feels as if he’s known all his life within mere moments of meeting her for the first time. It’s been my pleasure to meet with her here at the mission quite a few times over the past few weeks, and I was so looking forward to tonight’s gathering in her honor. Why do you ask?”
“Mr. Hartfield was a good friend of the deceased—”
“The victim,” Theo said. “She didn’t just die, she was murdered.”
“The victim,” Davis repeated through nearly clenched teeth, stepping past Theo and gesturing for Baines to precede him to the front door where the other officers waited outside on the walk. “And I thought he might could add some new angles to this case that we hadn’t considered. But now that we have the killer in custody, it looks as if…Theo, are you coming? I have to seal this place up to preserve the evidence in yonder.”
“I’ll be right there. I just want to take a last few seconds here where Sister Rachael preached to…you know, say my goodbyes.”
“I understand.” A sad expression came over the policeman’s face. “We’ll be right outside.”
Alone for the moment, Theo shook the piano a couple more times. He’d always known it was missing its front right wheel, and how Sister Rachael always propped it up with a broken, fist-sized chunk of smooth rose quartz someone had taken out of Cherry Creek and given to her as a gift. The rock was flat on one side and round on the other, and it fit tight enough to keep the piano wedged firmly up against the wall. But it was so well hidden under the corner of the instrument that if someone didn’t specifically know it was there, they would never suspect its presence.
Studying the front curtains, he saw that there was indeed a slight parting of the panels, and the view to the back door did line up nicely with it. But he’d never known the curtains to be open at all before. Sister Rachael always insisted that those who sought her out deserved their dignity, and privacy from any prying eyes out on the sidewalk.
“Theo? You finished?”
“Yeah,” Theo said, turning toward the door. “I guess I’ll be on my way if you don’t need anything else.”
“With the arrest, the case is closed as far as I’m concerned,” Davis said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Yes, Mr. Hartfield,” Baines said. “My thanks, too.”
Theo nodded parting glances with the others and, as Davis left firm orders with a policeman stationed at the door about keeping everyone out of the mission, climbed into his Buick. He pulled carefully around Baines’ fancy Packard Roadster and drove off, and turned right at the first intersection to make his way back toward downtown.
Instead of continuing toward the Family’s offices, located on a quiet upscale residential street a few blocks from the capitol complex, Theo pulled up in front of the Rocky Mountain News. Inside, he met with Porter Lane, a reporter for the paper and a friend from childhood, and was directed to the paper’s morgue.
He thought he found part of what he was looking for when his friend joined him at lunch time. From the date on the paper, he’d been out of town working a Contract when the story came out, so it was no wonder he’d missed it.
“How’s it coming?” Lane asked, noting the stack of papers. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Yeah. Who covered Rachel Martin’s killing this morning?”
Taken back slightly by the abrupt question, the journalist blinked and thought a moment.
“That would have been Edwin Brock. He’s the lead reporter on murders in Denver proper. Why?”
“I was wondering who found Sister Martin’s body. Do you think Edwin would tell me?”
Lane smiled. “Not if he wants to go on working here,” he said. “But I think he would tell me. How ‘bout I go ask him before he gets away for lunch, and then tell you all about it over our lunch at…say, the Brown Palace?”
“I guess I’m buying?”
“Why, no!” Lane looked shocked. “No such thing. I’ll be paying for my own lunch by supplying a name you need, thank you very much.”
A short time later, Theo watched the shapely waitress walk toward the kitchen with his and Lane’s lunch orders for steak with baked potatoes, then he turned to his friend.
“Okay, who found her?”
Lane looked noticeably uncomfortable.
“I’m trusting you to keep it to yourself, Theo,” he said softly. “I mean it. If the right someone finds out that I—”
“It was Milton Baines,” Theo said, enjoying the surprised look on Lane’s face. “I already suspected it. You just confirmed it.”
“How did you know?”
“He came in when I was there this morning,” Theo said. “And from what he and Pete Davis said, I could tell that wasn’t the first time he’d been there since sunup.” He lowered his voice. “Lane, do you know anything about the big donation Baines made to Sister Martin’s mission?”
The reporter shrugged. “Only that he made it,” he said. “It’s not my beat, but it’s pretty hard to miss when someone just ups and gives ten thousand dollars to a skid row church like that. Hell, I’d have to work fifteen or twenty years to make that kind of money, but Baines is so rich he can just hand it over.”
“Did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Did he hand it over?”
“We ran a photo of him giving her the check right after the donation was announced.”
“I saw it. But when was the donation announced?”
“Let me think.” Lane frowned in thought. “About four weeks ago.”
“Mm-hmm.” Theo nodded slightly. He missed that story among the others at the newspaper office, but it seemed like something a man such as Baines would have insisted on. “Have you heard anything about the benefit ball being cancelled tonight?”
“No.” Lane shook his head. “As a matter of fact, we’re running a special story in the evening paper about it going on despite Rev. Martin’s death. Milton Baines called the paper this morning and set up an interview at his home, and I heard he’s taking charge personally of making sure it goes off as scheduled as a kind of memorial to her.”
Both stopped talking when their food arrived. Theo thanked the waitress while Lane got busy with his steak and potato. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Theo washed down a bite of steak with a gulp of beer, and set his fork on the plate.
“What do you know about Murdock?” he asked.
“Jesse Murdock? Baines’ partner?”
“Yeah.”
Lane dabbed at his mouth with his linen napkin. “Not much,” he said, pushing bits of steak around his plate with his fork. “Just that he’s a mining engineer and he handles the on-site chores while Baines handles the book business here in town.”
“How successful are they?”
“I couldn’t say,” Lane said, choosing a nicely fried chunk of meat and eyeing it closely. “Mighty tasty beef today, though. I don’t cover the mining industry for the paper, but I have noticed where Baines and Murdock have operations in all the big districts and a few of the smaller diggings. They don’t specialize in any one mineral, but they have made some big noise lately about how gold in the Cripple Creek district looks like it could make a comeback because of some fancy new extraction technique they’ve come up with.”
“Does it work?”
Lane shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. From what I gather, it’s based on the idea that gold melts at a lower temperature than the quartz it’s often found in around old volcanoes like Pikes Peak. So if they can heat up a mess of crushed ore, and get it hot enough, the gold is supposed to flow out of it like water.”
“But that’s what all smelters do,” Theo pointed out. “There’s nothing new about it.”
“No, there isn’t.” Lane shrugged. “But their process involves a new way to heat the ore, then cool it afterwards so that all the heat isn’t lost up the chimney, the way it is now. They say it’ll extract more gold, and save a fortune in coal costs.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Theo allowed. “Do they have a working model of their system?”
“If they do, I haven’t seen it.” Lane finished a last bite before taking a drink and going on. “But then, I’m mostly covering the capitol these days, and that’s enough to keep me plenty busy.”
“I suppose. Did Rachel ever cash that check?”
“Of course she ca…” The reporter sat his fork aside and thought about it a minute. “No. I won’t say that. I honestly don’t know if she cashed it or not. I can only speculate that she must have because the money from it is about the only thing she had that someone might kill her for.”
“You’d think so,” Theo said. Finished with his meal, he pushed his plate away. “Who’s covering the benefit tonight? Edwin Brock?”
“Naw.” Lane pushed his own empty plate away and fished a toothpick from his vest pocket. “The benefit is a social function, and he only covers crimes. I’m not sure who’s on for tonight.”
Theo reached into his inside coat pocket for his wallet and removed a small bill, which he dropped on the table. “If you’re interested in a big story,” he said, coming to his feet, “stop by the fundraiser tonight.”
Lane stood and eyed his old friend closely.
“Theo?”
“I’ve just got a hunch something important is going to happen.”
The reporter waited for clarification, but when it didn’t come he shrugged and nodded at the door. “If you won’t say, I guess you won’t say.” He returned his toothpick to his vest pocket. “But I’m going to take your word for it and be there.”
“Be sure to bring your notebook.”
After dropping Lane off at the paper, Theo drove to the police station where, sitting on the edge of the accused bum’s bunk, he spoke with the man charged in Sister Rachael’s murder. The vagrant peered at Theo through gummy eyes, then explained that he’d spent the night in a doorway a few yards down the alley from Rachael’s kitchen door. Theo pictured the scene in his mind, and recalled the doorway the derelict must be talking about, and nodded.
“Go on,” he said.
Sometime during the wee hours, the gamy-smelling wretch murmured, though he wasn’t sure of the exact time he heard what sounded like two people arguing in the alleyway and trying to be quiet, but he otherwise ignored it. When he woke later, he found the envelope with Rachael’s name in the alley dirt. He noticed her door was open. When he peeked in and saw her lying on the floor, dead, he picked up the envelope, noticed it had money inside, and headed straight to Beeman’s for something to clear away what must be just part of the nightmares he had been having ever since he could remember. It wasn’t until he was arrested that he realized he actually saw what his blurry mind told him he could not have seen in the mission kitchen.
“And, honest mister, I didn’t kill Sister Rachael, like they’re saying I done.” The man wiped a tear from his eye. “She’s been mighty good to me. Now, with her gone, I ‘magine it’s gonna get a lot tougher for a lot of us.”
“It might,” Theo said. “Did you actually see anyone arguing in the alley?”
“Naw. But I learned in the war not to stick my nose into other folks’s quarrels. They might decide it’s better to shoot me than it is to keep fighting amongst themselves.”
Having had his own similar experiences in the war, Theo figured the drunk knew what he was talking about.
“What did they do?” Theo stared intently into the other man’s rheumy eyes. “When they stopped arguing, what did they do?”
“Beats me. All I know is that they were gone.”
“Okay.” Theo came to his feet. “Look, get yourself a couple more meals here,” he said, making sure he had the bum’s full attention. “And get yourself cleaned up while you’re at it. I expect you’ll be turned loose sometime tonight or in the morning.”
“You believe me, then?” The man’s voice took on a cautiously expectant tone. “You believe when I say I didn’t kill Sister Rachael nor rob her?”
“Do you remember anything else about last night and this morning that I need to know?” Theo pressed. “Anything at all?
“Only what she looked like laying there with her head caved in.” The bum wiped his nose with the back of his dirty hand. “She was mighty good to me. Mighty good to a lot of us.”
“I’m sure she was.” Theo motioned at the jailer down the hallway, at his post visible through the bars. “If you remember anything else, tell the guard to write it down for you right away.”
“I will. Say, mister, since you know I didn’t do it, and I won’t have to hang for it now, do you think you could tell them something that’ll make ‘em keep me in here a few more days? Maybe a week?” The derelict rose on unsteady legs. “It can still get mighty cold out yonder at night.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
Neither stuck out a hand for shaking.
Ten minutes later, Theo pulled up in front of the Mining Exchange Building, where the city directory claimed Baines and Murdock had their offices.
Neither Baines nor Murdock was in. A harried-looking receptionist explained that Baines was at the Brown Palace overseeing the last minute work of getting the benefit gala ready for the evening. Murdock, she said, left just after noon to make sure a truckload of machinery bound for one of the company’s mines near Golden was packed just right. But, somewhat wistfully, the receptionist said she thought both would be at the fundraiser.
“Not going yourself?”
“No.” She sighed. “And from what I hear, everyone who is anyone in Denver is going to be there.”
“Aw, I bet there’s lots of gents around who’d like to escort you to the ball,” Theo said, noting that the woman, somewhere in her early thirties, wasn’t wearing any marriage jewelry. “Pretty young thing like you.”
The woman dimpled. “You flatter me, sir,” she said, on the verge of a giggle. Her smile soon faded, though. “But the real reason is because I just can’t afford a ticket. Mr. Baines has paid me with stock certificates for the past two weeks while he and Mr. Murdock put every possible penny they can get into the company. See, they have a new gold extraction process, and they’re trying to interest investors. But so far they haven’t had much luck.”
“They haven’t?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she said, looking around and lowering her voice, “but I was speaking with a secretary at one of the other mining companies in the building at lunch the other day, and she said her boss thinks this new process won’t work so he didn’t invest. But he’ll be sorry when we’re all rich because of it.”
“Oh?” Theo smiled at her. “In that case, I might just invest some money in it myself.”
“You won’t regret it,” she said. “Um, what did you say your name is?”
“Brock,” Theo said smoothly, starting to turn toward the door. “Edwin Brock. And please pass along my regrets to Mr. Baines and Mr. Murdock.”
“I will.” The receptionist smiled again. “Are you going to be attending the gala tonight? It’s such a shame about that poor minister lady’s passing. She was in here just yesterday, and she seemed such a sweet soul.”
Theo turned back to study the receptionist’s face.
“She was here yesterday?”
“She was, poor thing.” The woman sighed deeply. “Mr. Baines and Mr. Murdock told me that if she showed up I was to tell her that they were out of the office because they were so busy writing up contracts for the new equipment it takes to build their gold extraction machinery, and they couldn’t be bothered at the time or they might make a costly mistake.” The receptionist flushed pink for a moment. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have mentioned that,” she said. “And please don’t tell Mr. Baines and Mr. Murdock that I did, because it’s private company business. But since Rev. Martin has passed on, I don’t see the harm in telling you, Mister…what did you say your name is, again?”
“Edwin Brock,” Theo said. “And thank you so much for your time.”
“My pleasure. Mr. Brock.”
Next, Theo stopped at Beeman’s. Even in the middle of the afternoon the speakeasy was doing a lively business. Henderson wasn’t in sight, and the bartender on duty offered the speculation that the morning man might be found at Sister Rachael’s church, since he and the lady preacher had been so close for the past few weeks. If he wasn’t there, Henderson might be at the railroad station, the barman opined, where he often picked up tips in the afternoons by helping passengers with their luggage and freight.
Theo made his way back to the mission, where he passed pleasantries with the policeman on duty at the front door. But Henderson hadn’t been by, the cop said.
While he was talking with the officer, Theo noticed that, as Baines told Detective Davis, he could see clear through to the back door from the narrow opening in the front window curtains. Saying his goodbyes to the beat copper and firing up the Buick, he drove around the corner to the mouth of the alley. Setting the brake and taking his keys, he walked up the alley to Rachael’s kitchen door. There, he studied the heavily littered dirt roadway.
With his back to the mission kitchen door, he saw that the street to his left, where his automobile was visible just past where the alley opened to the street, was slightly farther away than the street to his right. He turned right and started walking, and hadn’t gone more than ten feet until he found what he was looking for.
Satisfied, he returned to his Buick and drove home. There, he made a few phone calls before getting ready for the benefit banquet.
“Did they get him?” Theo shook a smiling Detective Davis’ hand in the hallway at the Brown Palace two hours later. “Which direction?”
“Got ‘em, and Cheyenne. We’re sending someone for him tomorrow. Thanks for the tip.” The officer moved his hat back on his head and jerked his eyebrows at the ballroom. “But are you sure? I mean, it makes sense, especially seeing as how you were right about the killer. But…well, are you absolutely positive that…”
“I am.” Theo peeked into the ballroom and noticed that Milton Baines was about to speak. “But we have to let him do it first.”
“Okay. But are you—”
“I’m sure, Pete,” Theo said. “Just give him a few minutes.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Baines said from the podium, raising his voice over the clinking glasses and silverware. When the room was quiet, he went on. “We all know why we’re here. Reverend Rachael Martin, rest her soul, was a saint to so many wretches here in Denver. She might be gone, called home, but her noble work must go on. That’s why I’m calling for the establishment of a foundation that will keep her mission open and honor her life. To that end, I am personally pledging another ten thousand dollars, even though my previous donation of that amount was stolen during her dastardly murder. And I challenge everyone of means here to donate similar amounts.”
He sipped at a glass of water while the crowd applauded.
“But,” he said when it was quiet again, “for such an endeavor to be legal, somebody, someone among us, must be willing to administer that foundation, the Sister Rachael Martin Charitable Trust, and oversee the management and disbursement of funds.”
“Why don’t you do it, Baines?” someone in the crowd shouted. “You appear to know more about it than anyone else here.”
“Yeah,” another man said, coming to his feet. “You’re the most qualified among us, you being her best friend and biggest donor.”
Baines held out his hands, his palms facing the audience. “Like most of you, I have my own business to run,” he said. “There are only so many hours in the day, and—“
“Folks!” Another gentleman stood and turned to face the crowd. “I read in the evening’s paper about how deep Mr. Baines cared for Sister Rachael and her work. If it’s just a matter of money, I’m sure we can raise enough tonight, right now, to make sure her work goes on without it being a burden on anyone in particular, especially Mr. Baines. So how ‘bout it? I’m going to start with five thousand dollars now, and another five if that mine I’ve got in Creede comes through. Who’ll match me?”
Several others stood up with similar offers, and Baines looked like he was about to cry.
“Not yet,” Theo whispered to the detective. “Just another minute or two.”
While they were waiting, an officer approached and whispered to Davis, then took up a position nearby. The detective turned to Theo and smiled.
“They got Murdock in Golden, and they’re bringing him in tonight.”
Theo nodded, satisfied. “He’ll come in handy,” he said.
When the promised donations seemed to be slacking off, Baines pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes.
“With so much support, and so much encouragement,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice, “how can I refuse. I appreciate your vote of confidence, and I accept the responsibility you good people of Denver have placed on me. Tomorrow morning, I will begin the legal proceedings it takes to set up the Sister Rachael Martin Charitable Trust, and I hope several of you prominent gentlemen will accept positions as trustees.”
“Go get him,” Theo said.
Detective Davis pushed the door open and, with Theo and two uniformed police officers approached the head table.
Baines seemed puzzled, but then his eyes widened and he looked like he wanted to run away.
“Hold it right there, Baines,” Davis shouted, while the crowd sat in stunned silence. “You’re under arrest.”
“Wh-what?”
“Arrest.” The detective pointed at the two officers. “You. You’re being arrested, Mr. Baines.”
“This is an outrage,” Baines spat. “I’ll have your job for this, Davis!”
“If you can get it, you’re welcome to it,” the policeman said tightly. “Now stand there and be quiet for a minute.”
“Why are you arresting Mr. Baines,” someone in the crowd suddenly shouted.
Davis looked at Theo and nodded.
“Most of you know me or my family,” Theo said, raising his voice. “Many of you have contracted for our services.”
“What’s going on, Theo?” the same voice asked. “Why can’t the policeman speak for himself?”
“Detective Davis can’t say anything about this case, but I can as a private citizen,” Theo said. “Milton Baines is being arrested on bunko charges. He’s a con man, and he was about to steal thousands of dollars from you all.”
“Nonsense!” Baines snapped. “I was just—”
“How can that be?” another in the crowd shouted. “He just pledged another ten thousand dollars himself.”
“He might have pledged it. But, like with his previous big donation, I doubt he had intentions of honoring that pledge.” Theo waited for the outburst that followed to settle down some before going on. “See, he didn’t give any ten thousand dollars to Sister Rachael before. He just said he did, and made a big show of it so that people like you would think he’s trustworthy enough for you to invest your money in his company. But he never actually turned over the money. He didn’t have the money to give in the first place. So none of it was stolen in that robbery this morning.”
Theo let that sink in before going on.
“I’m going to sue you, Hartfield,” Baines snarled. “You and—”
“Shut up,” Davis barked.
“Now, Indian giving isn’t illegal, but Sister Rachael could have made him look very bad in Denver because of it,” Theo continued. “That’s why he went ahead and staged this benefit ball, after Sister Rachael’s death this morning. He figured his phony donation would have gotten lost in the accounting, and he could quietly use some of the money raised tonight on his gold extraction process. Only it won’t make him rich because it doesn’t really work like he said. Right, Baines?”
Baines clamped his jaw shut and stared hate at Theo.
“Did Baines kill Sister Rachael, too?” someone asked quietly. “To cover it up?”
“No.” Theo looked at Davis, who nodded slightly. “Hobnail Henderson, the bartender at Beeman’s speakeasy, killed her,” Theo said. “They were…let’s just say they had a relationship that Sister Rachael wanted to keep private. Baines said he’s been to the church quite a lot lately, most likely pestering Sister Rachael and trying to talk her out of telling the world that his check was worthless. I figure Hobnail Henderson just got jealous about it. If I’m not badly mistaken, Henderson is the one who killed and robbed her. It was likely in a jealous rage. But he didn’t get away with Baines’ donation, because there never was any.”
“That’s all you better say,” Davis muttered, signaling the uniformed cop to get Baines out of the room. “We don’t want to prejudice potential jurists before his trial.”